


Carapacian

by EAter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 3D Printer, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Carapaces, English class, Stridercest - Freeform, if you tilt your head slightly to the left and squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAter/pseuds/EAter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me the story of how a woman with too much hair wrecked the planet with a printer.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carapacian

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, to say the least, I was supposed to write a sci-fi apocalypse paper for english based off of this ( http://3dprinting.com/3dprinters/first-russian-bioprinter-unveiled-october/ ) that I chose, and instead fanfic came out. not terribly surprising. If it weren't for school, it would be hardcore Stridercest, cuz yes, but since it is, its not. *small tears* Anyway, have fun with this lil' blurb, it was a fun time writing it.

Carapacian

  
  


Year three-thousand and thirty-two After Condescension. Somewhere in the north-western quadrasphere.

 

Sometimes, I look up at the sun and forget that even a glance through my ultra-protective sunglasses threatens to burn my retinas clean off. Not that it would matter, because I can always print new ones, but the surgery required to replace them would be difficult without the ability to see, and as much as I love the Mayor, he’s not exactly the smartest tool in the shed. As I continue my weary trudge through the dunes and violent sunlight, I run through my mental checklist once more. Are there any patches of skin dry and peeling? Three, as of this morning. Any cracked nails? left ring finger. Popped stitches? Right calf and lower back. Bald spots? None, thank fuck. Failed organs? Right kidney, a wee bit of shriveled liver. Eww. Tonight’s going to be interesting, especially since Jack only shares his knives in exchange for some sad and/or violent story.

 

I approach our… small gathering of houses? I’d say it was a neighbourhood if it had more than three, and had anything but open space surrounding it. Alas, this isn’t exactly a suburb, and it isn’t exactly a civilization. It’s four almost-humans and a firefly in the middle of the desert that happens to be the whole planet earth. How exciting. Anyway, I approach our SGOH on weary legs and a being about as tall as a pre-pubescent teen runs out to greet me, feet tangling in the rags that hang from his wrap and just barely managing to keep upright and moving forward.

 

“Daaaaaaaave!” for such a small dude he has a voice that can be heard for miles, and it’s certainly a way to wake my eardrums up after months of roaming the silent desert.

  
  


“Well if it isn’t mister Mayor. How was holdin’ down the fort?” my (stubbornly still obvious) Texas drawl comes out sandy from disuse. Its been a while, and the desert doesn’t give one much to talk to, unless you want to have a conversation with yourself.

 

“It was lonely without you Dave. Parcel Mistress and Jack wrecked can town again fighting, and Serenity’s blinky ran out of juice. And Jack shredded all of the toilet paper again. And-” The mayor has an unfortunate habit of talking far too much and without any comprehensible train of thought, so I cut him off before I could get lost.

 

“No need to worry lil’ man, we have cans falling from our ears out here, and I’d be happy to help you rebuild. I’ll get Serenity all fixed up too, it’ll take twenty minutes, tops. Don’t worry about the toilet paper, I’ll print as much as you need. Oh, speaking of Jack, where did you last see him? I need a few updates on the ol’ body.” I’m mostly positive that covers all of the points he brought up, so I grab his hand and drag him along toward our house in search of our reclusive and violent friend.

 

“Uhh, I think I saw him outside Parcel Mistress’s window earlier, but then he disappeared again. Maybe he went to print more cutting devices?” The Mayor says thoughtfully, pulling a pondering face as he attempts to deduce Jack’s whereabouts. I find this statement to be quite likely, considering his bizarre obsession with Parcel Mistress, and his even larger obsession with creatively shaped knives. However, Parcel Mistress hates him with a burning passion that has a ridiculously long backstory, and we only have so many knife blocks. At least, as lonely as it seems out here, its never boring.

 

“Hey Dave, did you find Bro this time?” I very nearly stop in my tracks, but I manage to continue walking without a hitch in my step. My face, however, does drop.

 

“No.” I whisper, and the Mayor only squeezes my hand in response.

 

We arrive at Jack’s humble abode and let ourselves in. He wouldn’t hear a knock on the door anyway, and he never bothers knocking on our doors, so there's little reason to do so for him. We find him where we expected him to be, on the floor in front of his printer fiddling with knives. There are stacks of cans covering all four walls, as is expected for a printer room.

 

“Yo, Jack my main man, whadda ya say to letting me borrow a couple of your scalpels? I just got back, gotta fix up my insides.” I announce my presence by getting straight to the point. Honestly, this guy makes me a tad nervous.

 

“You know the price.” he grunts, clearly too fixated on an interesting scythe of sorts to give me his full attention. I sigh, running a hand down my face. I knew this was coming, and yet I still hoped to avoid it.

 

“Alright, whatever, what do you want to hear this time?” He looks up now, a mischievous glint in his eye.

 

“Tell me the story of how a woman with too much hair wrecked the planet with a printer.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Year two-thousand and fourteen Anno Domini. Dallas, Texas.

 

I was a mere six years old, somewhere between three and four feet tall, with hair so blonde it bordered on white, and eyes a murky gray. I didn’t know who I was past my name, Dave Strider, or who I was going to be, but I wanted, like any little boy, to be just like my big bro. My older brother was twenty, a genius born in a house of pigs, an inventor by day, a sick rapper by night, and an online merchant of things that I ‘wasn’t old enough to know about’ by wee hours of the morning. He reached a solid six feet and was well built, for a nerd. His hair was only a shade darker than mine (but you wouldn’t know, under the hat he wore all of the time) and his eyes were an unnatural shade of orange that he hid behind pointy shades. My parents, for all I knew, never existed. Bro was all I had in the way of parents, siblings, or friends, and in all honestly he was all I wanted.

 

We lived in a penthouse apartment on the bad side of town, and we used roof access for the sake of daily strife and so Bro could feed the crows. Our air conditioner only worked in winter and we had crappy anime swords in the cupboards. Bro had a puppet named Lil’ Cal, and he was a pretty sweet puppet. He totally did not ever freak me out even slightly, Lil’ Cal was awesome. Our life was weird to the common eye but perfect to me, and I wouldn’t have changed it for the world. Unfortunately, the world had other ideas. This was the day it started, but nobody would have known that, considering this day was only as eventful as any of the other days in the Strider household.

 

“Broooo! Check out what I found! Apparently, some science dude is making a 3D printer, but I think it’s fake. How in the world would you print a three dimensional object?” I asked my Bro because he was way smarter than any of the other science dudes out there. I would believe anything was possible, if and only if Bro said it was.

 

“Don’t worry lil’ man, its very possible, and not terribly complicated. The question is, why would anyone want to?” He shook his head, and his expression turned grave. His next sentence came out a mumble, and I struggled to hear it. “Next thing we know they’ll be trying to print slaves.” I probably should have remembered that, but Bro said strange things often, and that seemed merely another strange thing

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.

Eight years later, the 3D printer was a common household appliance. Invented and patented by Miss Meenah Peixes, heir of to the throne of the Crocker Corporation, the largest and richest electronics company in the history of ever. If you had a television, a microwave oven, a laptop computer, a washing machine, or any other overlooked household electronic under the sun, you could bet money it was branded with the Crocker trident. Crocker Corp. had taken over the world right under everyone’s noses in a matter of months, and only my brother seemed to notice. Nevertheless, he bought a printer for our little apartment as well, if only because it made shopping less of a hassle.

 

Despite her bad name in our household, Meenah Peixes (aka: the Batterwitch, as Bro so lovingly dubbed her based on the fact that her company started in baking goods) was actually an extremely talented woman. The printer she created was able to rearrange atoms in their bonds, taking hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, and any other element, and creating from there objects composed of the same elements. How she managed to eliminate the catastrophic energy release when one breaks atomic bonds was a long and complicated journey, with many failures that caused the destruction of hundreds of pacific islands owned by Meenah herself. To the untrained eye, it seemed like a printer that took canned elements rather than ink and printed any object, including food, working electronics, and any other daily material needed. Crocker Corp. not only made money off of the printers themselves, but they also started a business in selling pure elements. Gold, silver, platinum, and other rare pure elements remained and expensive and in high demand, but the market for diamonds greatly decreased, considering that they are made of compressed carbon, which ran crazy cheap, as did many other common gases. Grocery stores became element stores, filled with racks upon racks of canned elements so one could take their cans home and print any food, clothes, or any other necessity. The elemental composition of things became a curriculum in schools, and by year two-thousand and thirty-one a third grader could tell you exactly what elements he needed to put into his printer to get a plate of french fries.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

By then I was twenty-three. Bro was richer than rich off of his own inventions, things that he didn't sell but sold elemental compositions and blueprints of, because the market didn't need real objects anymore. I had made my own way directing movies, as the entertainment industry boomed when people realized that there were some things that you can't just print. Bro and I still lived together, but in the penthouse of a towering skyscraper in the most expensive neighborhood of Los Angeles, California. Lil' Cal continued to appear out of seemingly nowhere, and I had long since admitted that he scared the pants off me. We had money and fame and fortune, and we still needed no one but each other. Life was good, and it seemed like it was going to stay that way. Of course, as soon as things are good, they tend to fly off the handle into extremely bad with no warning whatsoever.

 

Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff The Movie was a comedy series based off of a comic strip I drew when I was in my early teens. It drew audiences in with humor in the form of stupidity, and if you were smart, you would catch the ironic undertones that the series was known for. It was my pride and joy, and I was returning home from a long day of directing SBaHJ 4 when I lost both of my eyes to a bit of flying shrapnel.

 

Despite how much the world had grown, some things never changed. There were still crazies, and terrorists, and serial killers, and bombers, and it just so happened that somebody thought it would be a good day to bomb a Los Angeles office building as I was being driven home. It was fairly pointless and the bomber was caught within hours, and I was honestly a bit disappointed that the man who took my eyes was such an idiot. Needless to say, I woke up in the hospital panicked. I couldn't see a thing, and my entire body hurt as if a horde of demonic kittens chose me as their yarn ball. I could hear Bro there, talking to me, trying to calm me from my crazed state, but I couldn't see him. I could hear him and I couldn't see him and I was very afraid. Days went by and Bro never left my side. I appreciated it, as at that moment I don't think I would have remained sane if he wasn’t there making sure I kept myself together. My life swirled down the toilet drain right before my eyes, and I couldn't even watch it happen. The things this would mean flicked through my head at the speed of light, I would have to learn braille, wear sunglasses all the time, use a cane, maybe get a guide dog, and I could kiss my career goodbye. I couldn't exactly direct movies without watching them, after all. It didn't take me long to fall into a depression. I stopped talking to anyone but Bro, and even he had to work to get any words out of me. I stayed at the apartment where I could make my way around by memory and feel, and I didn't leave.

 

Despite the way it seemed however, all was not lost. I was a man of money and fame, and Bro was a genius. He threw himself into his work, and one night before I fell asleep, he came into my room and tell me he would get my eyes back. Like the little boy I was so long ago, I believed him, and that was the first time I smiled since the accident. It took him two months to create a version of the 3D printer that could take the elements we learned to know so well and make from them living tissue. He printed me a pair of new eyes, and he did the surgery himself.

 

I opened my eyes again three months, twelve days, and four hours after I saw the world for what I believed was the last time, and looked into my brother's blue eyes. I quickly had to squint, the new eyes were far more sensitive to light than my old ones were, and bro gave me a pair of shades that I quickly slipped on.

 

“They may need to adjust to the light, wear these for a few days. Also, you may want to look in the mirror, I'm afraid the color didn't come out quite right. No biggie though, at least you can see again.” Bro spoke as if what he had given me was a mere briefcase that was gray instead of black, and despite my usual ability to control my emotions I felt tears in my eyes. I hadn't cried since I was four and I skinned my knee sparring with Bro, and yet I felt not an ounce of shame as I let them fall one by one. I watched his eyes visibly widen in surprise, and I threw myself at him, hanging onto him as if my life depended on it.

 

“Thank you Bro, thank you thank you, you don't even understand how much this means to me, I can see again Bro, I can see, and I don't care if my eyes are a different color because I can see with them, I-” I had to stop in order to sob, and every tear that fell stung because my tear ducts were a bit out of use, but I couldn't care. Bro held me like a child with a skinned knee covered by fresh bandages, and when the tears finally stopped I looked in the mirror. My eyes were red like blood or rubies, and they never did adjust to the light. Shades became a permanent fixture on my face, coming off only for sleep, but I could see the world again, and that's what mattered.

 

Of course, it was only a matter of time before Crocker Corp blackmailed Bro into selling his organic Printer to them, and only a matter of time after that before they were in every hospital. Life expectancy skyrocketed, considering organs could easily be replaced once they failed, and it wasn't long before people stopped aging in appearance past thirty. Immortality was looking to be achievable, and it forced governments across the planet to restrict birth rates and put in age limits before the planet overpopulated. Crocker Corp developed space ships, and moon missions became a monthly occurrence. Hundreds of men had been there and back, and at least fifty trips had taken civilians without fail. Even an idiot knew that the Batterwitch was looking for moon colonization, and it was within her grasp. What we didn't know however, was that world domination was in her grasp as well.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I was fifty-six years old and didn't look a day over twenty-five when Bro was proved right. Meenah Peixes had printed a human, or as close to a human as was possible. In truth, it was an entirely new species. Made to have a brain and body like a human, but stronger, longer lasting. They were supposed to be the world's servants, made with a hard, pearl white outer shell made of carapace rather than skin so as to keep their organs from deteriorating as fast as humans did. They were as human-like as possible besides the appearance, and their naturally calm and submitting nature. They weren't made to have a will to rebel, and they didn't. They were organic, sentient robots, and they replaced our maids, policemen, laborers, mailmen, nannies, cashiers, and all other lowly jobs that humans wanted nothing to do with. It took twenty years to incorporate this species into our daily lives, and fifteen years after that for them to have their own societies, families, children and feelings. They weren't paid, but they got all standard needs for living entirely free. It was all very communist, if you asked Bro, but they never complained. They were a species below us humans, and they knew their place. Meenah Peixes had printed a race of slaves.

 

We called them Carapacians.

 

A female Carapacian was assigned to our building to deliver mail, and her presence outside my door when I was leaving for work was unexpected. She was taller than me at a solid six feet five inches, with eyes like solid black marbles and a shell like polished pearl. She was completely hairless under her mail woman cap and lacked even eyebrows, her nose was flattened like Voldemort from those old British wizard movies, and you couldn't see the slit of her mouth until she opened it to speak. She clutched a mail satchel and a brown package, and her voice when she spoke was smooth but slightly monotone.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Dave Strider. My name is AC567UY and I will be in charge of all postal services within this building from now on. This package was delivered to your brother, Mr. Dirk Strider, from Samuel Garry in New Hampshire. Enjoy.” She handed the box to me and walked away with a grace I would never be able to achieve.

 

“Thanks? Or not. Uhh. Okay then.” I mumbled to myself, setting the package just inside the door. “BRO, PACKAGE FOR YOU.” I yelled into the living room, where I assumed he was sleeping on the couch again. “AC567UY, Huh? That's no name. I'll call you Parcel Mistress.” I said to myself, as I followed her steadily moving form towards the elevator down to the tower's exit.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

 

I remember very clearly the day the Batterwitch took over planet Earth. She made it look so easy, and unlike every cartoon villain who attempted the same feat, there was no hero to stop her. Every television, big screen, holograph machine, cell phone, bluetooth earpiece, and other electronic device with her trident engraved into it that had a screen or a speaker displayed her image and/or voice on The First Day. It should have been December fourth, year two-thousand one-hundred and nineteen Anno Domini. I was ninety nine years old, and I watched the holographic screen in my bedroom at precisely 8 AM turn on and display her image. Meenah Peixes was undoubtedly a powerful woman, and she looked the part. She had eyes the fuchsia of an artificially dyed flower, and pale skin that bordered on gray. She had a mane of wild black curls that nearly brushed the floor when she stood at full height, and a grin that was as literal a representation as 'from ear to ear' as a human's face was capable. She wore a sharp black pantsuit that accented her bodacious curves and a gold circlet rested atop her head. When she spoke, fear struck me like lightning.

 

“Inhabitants of Earth, as you know, my name is Meenah Peixes, and I am the sole owner of everything on the planet. Look at the first thing you see to your left. It probably has a trident carved into it somewhere. If it doesn't, it is over eighty years old and too old to matter. If it does, it's mine. Today I claim my place as rightful ruler of the planet. I suggest you comply quietly. From now on, I will be known as Her Imperious Condescension. I am now, for all intents and purposes, your Empress. My word is law, and I suggest that if you are currently head of some insignificant government you surrender to me quickly. If you don't, I have an army of Black Carapacians. They are meaner, faster, and stronger than any of the insignificant white creatures you have come to know. They will crush your measly human armies quickly, and without remorse. From now on, today is to be known as day one of the first year After Condescension. Good day, subjects.”

 

As was expected, Earth didn't surrender quietly, and after nearly fifty years of world peace, the planet dived headfirst into World War III, except this time, it wasn't half of the world against the other, it was the entire planet against one woman, and her army from the moon. As promised, Her Imperious Condescension deployed her armies of her black Carapacians, we called them Dersites, to every country, and every last human soldier was wiped out in a matter of months. She didn't lie. The Dersites were far more powerful than any human or Carapacian we had ever seen, but that was only to be expected. What wasn't expected, however, was for the white Carapacians, or Prospitians, to fight too. What we learned as the two races clashed, was that they hated each other with a fire that brought out the Prospitians' power, and intimidated the Dersites enough to bring them to the same level. This was when the world began falling apart.

 

It was clear that The Condesce had not anticipated this, and the Carapacian war fell out of her control. All humans could do was stand aside and watch as the two conflicting sides tore their planet apart in a fight ten times more lethal than Hitler's Holocaust. There were casualties to both races, but a large majority was to human bystanders. Despite the power we held in the form of our printers, there was little we could do when Crocker Corp. fell and the economy with it. Elements were in high demand and sold by former Crocker Corp. members on a sort of black market, and humans went into hiding on their own planet. The Carapacians were so immersed in their fight that they barely noticed our presence, and all human deaths were collateral damage. They never went out of their way to kill us, and it was appreciated. As long as we stayed out of the way, we survived. The problem was, we didn't always want to stay out of the way.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

 

Three-hundred and forty-two years After Condescension, Bro and I joined the fight. Three-hundred and forty-two years we waited patiently, gathering supplies, preparing ourselves. It was unspoken knowledge between the two of us that we would fight on the Prospitian side against The Condesce, and finally we were ready.

 

We stood at the door to our underground bunker in full body armor; swords and knives strapped to every place we might need them. Guns would be useless in this fight, the Carapacians would destroy the bullets all too easily. Lil' Cal was tied securely by his arms around Bro's waist. Bro lifted his arm to open the hatch door, but I stopped him.

 

“Bro.” I lowered my shades on my nose to look him in the eye. “Whatever happens out there, you must promise me. If we get separated, we will find each other. And for no reason, whatsoever, is either of us to die.” I spoke quietly, as if afraid he would reject my request.

 

“No worries lil' man.” he said, a small smile on his normally expressionless face. “I don't plan on going anywhere without you, but I promise, on Cal's life, that I will always come back to you. I will always find you again, no matter what.” I nodded, pushed up my shades, and opened the door.

 

Earth had become a wasteland. Fifty years into the Carapacian war, the entire human race had moved underground, where we were mostly safe from collateral damage, and after centuries of growth the under-world spanned most of the planet. Bro and I hadn't seen the sun in over three-hundred years. When we stepped into the light once again, the world appeared white, and when our eyes adjusted we found that description wasn't far from the truth. The sun seemed brighter, somehow, as if a layer of the atmosphere had burned away. The city we believed we were under was nothing but a few interlocking metal structures, surrounded by dunes of pale sand that stretched for miles. The ground shook faintly, and tiny figures zipped across the sky miles above us. The war was still in full force, but it had taken flight. As they ruined the planet, the Carapacians brought their war to the skies. What began as a gunshot war developed through the nuclear stage, and while humans hid away, Carapacian minds had created their own weapons. Rings, as they appeared to us, with properties that allowed their hosts to grow wings, and make use of radiation in the air around them as projectile weapons. To a human, it looked like angels and demons were fighting with swords and magic. Bro and I were walking into it on foot. Fortunately, we had come prepared for any possibility. We had armor made of a light titanium alloy, radiation blocking masks, and as cliché as it sounds, rocket boots, for when we the fight was made airborne. We were ready, and so we fought.

 

Bro and I jumped into the fight guns blazing... well, swords slicing would be a better way to put it. There was a reason our apartment was filled to the brim with Japanese style katanas, and it wasn't for the sake of scaring the life out of visitors. For the entire time I had been alive, those swords were lying around, and it was because Bro was nothing if not a master with them. Fighting, he moved faster than an untrained eye could follow, and he taught me how to do it too. We may have looked like imbeciles, blasting off on our rocket shoes, in titanium armor suits and super sweet shades, carrying around an armada of samurai swords, but we were nothing if not formidable.

 

Fifteen minutes in, Bro had slayed his first Dersite. Within two hours, the Prospitians could see that they had gained a pair of invaluable allies. They accepted our presence in their midst, and they fought with us as if we had always been there. There was one particular pair of combatants that stood out from the others, a single Dersite and Prospitian whose individual battle was far more explosive than any we had seen before. The two fighters zipped back and forth across a chunk of sky the approximate size of a football field, shooting green lasers and fire, slashing at each other with swords, bleeding from dozens of wounds. I was almost afraid to intervene, they were far too fast for me to keep up, and I had the feeling if I tried I would only do damage to myself. Based off the miniscule wary expression on Bro's face, he agreed. We watched, for a few minutes, and they paused at one point, and I got a good look at the Prospitian's face.

 

“Bro? Is that... Parcel Mistress? I think it is, its been a long time, but that definitely looks like her.” My eyebrows pulled together in confusion, but Bro nodded.

 

“It is. She looks bad though, shall we lend our assistance?”

 

“Yeah.” We moved forward, coming up on either side of Parcel Mistress. Her eyes widened in surprise and recognition, and I gave her a tiny reassuring smile. “Need an extra couple pairs of hands?”

 

“Thank you very much, sir.” the relief in her eyes was slight but visible. She turned back toward her opponent and her expression snapped back to focused. “I am attempting to incapacitate him without killing him, he is high ranked and may have valuable information about the enemy's plans.” Bro and I nodded in near perfect unison, and caught the Dersite off guard. It was clear he expected us to be slow, and he didn't move nearly fast enough to avoid both of our attacks. He managed to duck the temple shot I was going for with the hilt of my sword, but took bro's back-blade strike full in the ribs, the blow cracked his carapace shell. As I made to slash for a wing, he sent a fist encased in green flame toward me. Despite my armor, the flame-shrouded punch he delivered to my gut seared my skin and I hissed in pain, but by not dodging the hit he gave me an opening. While he expected me to flinch from the pain, he turned his back to me to face Bro. I took my chance and dug my fingers into the cracks in his shell, making him cry out in pain. He lashed out with fire sharpened to many small points, and Bro happened to be right in range. From my position behind the Dersite, I couldn't see where he got hit, but I saw him fall.

 

I very nearly panicked and dove after him, but I had a handhold with enough leverage to pull the Dersite against me and lay my blade against his throat, effectively pinning his wings between his body and mine and rendering him immobile. I couldn't give up the chance I had to end the fight, and I trusted Bro could get himself back to base. He was tougher than the average person, and I had seen him get up with injuries far worse than a few stab wounds. I prayed to all gods humans may or may not have ever believed in that Bro would make it out okay, and pinned the Dersite. He was caught between pain and a sharp object, and despite the fact that his arms and therefore fire were still usable, he was clearly smart enough to see that if he tried anything, I would either dig my metal covered fingers deeper into his soft insides, or slit his throat.

 

“So tell me, why are a couple of humans fighting in the Carapacian war?” His voice was low and gravelly, and he had an accent that was hard to name, likely caused by his mouth full of shark-like teeth.

 

“Considering I'm the one with the sword, I think I'll be the one asking the questions. You can shut up and answer, or I'll suddenly become curious as to the texture of your left lung.” He clearly tried to hide the way his eyes widened in fear at the thinly veiled threat, and with a sneer, shut up. Parcel Mistress approached us and promptly took charge of the interrogation. It was clear she knew what information she was looking for, while I had no idea

 

“What is your name, and who do you work for.?” I thoroughly expected him to give me a series of numbers and letters as Parcel Mistress had for his name, and tell us he worked for the Condesce. To my surprise however, he did not.

 

“The name's Jack. I work for myself.” He said with a heinous grin. Parcel Mistress frowned, she wasn't expecting that answer either.

 

“It appears I was mistaken. He must be a rebel. He fights for his own amusement and for no higher purpose. These disgusting things She made, no loyalty, no respect, nothing but violence obsessed animals. He is useless to us, kill him.”

 

“Wait!” the cry tore through his throat with all the terror of a rat in the talons of a hawk. “Wait. I have information, I know what She plans to do, I have all of the mission plans, I'll tell you if you just STOP BEING SO RASH AND DONT KILL ME, CONDESCE!” he yelled her name like a curse, rage and terror mixing in the way his limbs trembled. I turned a questioning glance to Parcel Mistress, and though she pondered the plea, her hatred seemed to prove her reasoning biased.

 

“Why should I trust a single word you say? You betrayed your mistress and your purpose, you are vermin.” She spat, rage and hatred re-igniting the same fire in her eyes she had while fighting.

 

“Oooooohkay, calm down, lets think this through like rational minded, sentient beings please. If he's got information, there are ways to extract the absolute truth without doubt, so we may as well keep him until we know for sure. Now Jack, was it? Why don't you accompany me to humble abode, and we will talk this out.” I took control of the situation before it could heat up, I'd already gotten one four-degree burn that day, and I didn't want another one, thank you very much.

 

Parcel Mistress turned away, breathing heavily, clearly attempting to calm herself down and face the situation like a 'rational minded, sentient being'. Carefully, so as not to hurt Jack more than necessary, I headed toward the bunker with him, Parcel Mistress following behind.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Jack, as it turned out, was actually quite trustworthy, contrary to Parcel Mistress's beliefs. I dug out an old device Bro printed that rendered the wearer unable to speak a lie, and though we never told Jack what it did, it never gave the alarm. There was honestly only one thing of importance in his entire reveal. The Condesce had abandoned the planet after the first one-hundred years of war. On the moon, she developed equipment for space travel, and after deeming our world a failed experiment, took over half of her Dersite armies and left, in search of 'more interesting' worlds to take over. This of course, meant that the past two-hundred years of fighting had been entirely pointless.

 

“Why do you think I went my own way? The only reason I kept fighting after she left was because it was fun, I didn't even care who it was, I've killed as many Dersites as I have Prospitians.” he stated, unphased by our horrified looks. He only grinned maliciously. “I just really enjoy the feel of my blade slicing through thick carapce.” I blinked.

 

“Dude, you're crazy. Like, straight up sadistic psychopath insane.”

 

“Label me what you want. I was literally born fully matured from a printer to annihilate a race, can you really blame me?” Despite my attempts to make excuses, he had a point. He was only doing what he was made to do, and in a way, I felt sorry for him.

 

“If I may interrupt? Jack, tell me, are all of your... comrades in the same... mindset as you are?” Parcel Mistress spoke up, clearly struggling to hide her hostility in politeness.

 

“Nah. I'm only this way because I was printed as a leader. Most of them just follow orders. Their opinion is that of the higher ups.”

 

“I see. In that case, considering our situation, I suggest a movement for peace. If a leader such as yourself told them there was no reason to fight, would they stop?”

 

“Sure. But what makes you think I would tell them that? War is so much more fun.” It was entirely inexplicable, the rage I felt after that one statement. Even though after all of the others I felt nothing but pity, after this I grew angry. It took all of a second to get my sword out and be across the room, sharp tip digging into a crack in his carapace shell from his earlier injury.

 

“You'll tell them that because I'll kill you if you don't, and maybe after some time you'll find some pity in your miserable heart for those of us who have been living with your kind's war for three hundred years!” He blinked at me, visibly startled, and his face broke into a grin.

 

“Ah yes, the poor humans, who had to move underground with their little element cans and printers just to survive the war between two races humans themselves created with said printers!” he had a point, but I only frowned slightly and pressed deeper with my sword. “But I’ll help, I guess. Who knows, maybe being on the goody-goody-two-shoes side will be fun after all.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

With that argument done and over with, all we really had to do was wait for Bro to get back. It had been at least an hour since the fight, and I had honestly expected him to show up by now. I knew that as soon as he arrived any injuries he had could be fixed up with ease, but he just hadn't come back yet, and this worried me. I repeated his promise in my head like a mantra, I promise, on Cal's life, that I will always come back to you. He promised on Cal's life. That puppet meant more to him than I did some days, and I knew he would walk through that door any minute now.

 

After three more hours of fruitless waiting, I went out to look for him. The panic had set in about an hour and a half earlier, and the only reason I hadn't left then was Parcel Mistress's insistence that it wasn't safe, that he would be back any minute. But if it wasn't safe for me, then it certainly wasn't safe for him, who was injured to an unknown degree, and possibly had damaged equipment. For her sake I waited a bit longer, but eventually I had to go search or go insane from paranoia and fear.

 

I didn't find him. I searched from the place he fell in a huge circle twelve miles in radius, in small sand caves and skeleton buildings and between dunes. I looked far and wide and in all places he could possibly have gotten on foot within the amount of time he had been gone (because if his rockets were still working he would have gone straight back to the bunker, no doubt about it) and I still could not, for the life of me, find him. Eventually I couldn't keep going. It was the middle of the night and fatigue was hitting hard, along with the fear. Bro was it for me, my only family, my only friend, the only other human on this planet willing to actually do something about the trainwreck our world had become, but he disappeared and I had no idea what had become of him.

 

I collapsed on the most stable floor of what looked like an old apartment building and slept.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When I woke, My vision was full of a wide-eyed Dersite’s surprisingly innocent face. of course, innocent or not he was a Dersite, and recognizing the enemy I pulled a very interesting maneuver putting me on the opposite side of the room as him with one sword drawn and one gun drawn backwards (I had just woken up, give me some credit.). I promptly switched the gun around and resumed my warning stance. The Dersite was honestly unlike any I had ever seen before. He was short, only about the size of a pre-pubescent teen, and his face was round, somewhat childlike. His eyes were big and open and white like pearls, and when he lifted his hand and waved hesitantly I almost ‘aww’ed like a fifth grader with a puppy poster.

 

“Hullo.” the Dersite’s voice was smooth but loud, unlike Jack’s, and somewhat awed.

 

“Yo.” I lowered my weapons hesitantly, but this guy honestly didn’t give off the vibe that meant threat, so I went ahead and put them away.

 

“I’m the Mayor. Do you want to help me govern Can Town mister?” The sash across his chest did, in fact, say ‘Mayor’ but it was more like ‘MAYO r’ because it was composed of an old mayonnaise wrapper with a poorly scrawled ‘r’ tacked on to the end. How the guy even managed to find a mayonnaise wrapper was beyond me, but then there was Can Town to figure out. What I hadn’t noticed the night before when I fell asleep in there was the literal town built from empty element cans and poorly drawn chalk streets that had a fairly realistic urban sprawl from the corner outward. I considered saying no, but the search for Bro had proven fruitless and I was tired and sad and afraid for him and I just didn’t know what to do. So I played can town with the Mayor, and his firefly friend named Serenity that flew in the window a bit later, and I calmed down.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I ended up bringing the Mayor with me back to the bunker. Parcel Mistress seemed beside herself with worry for me, and it felt nice to be cared for, but the fact that it wasn’t Bro just made me feel his absence that much more. Jack didn’t seem to care at all, he was sitting in a corner printing all varieties of knives. what a bizarre dude. He was just talking smack about the humans and their printers, and he became just as entranced with the thing as I did when we got our first printer. The Mayor, quite expectedly, settled right in and began setting up Can Town in a corner, completely unperturbed by the fact that he literally had to start from scratch. I gave a small smile and helped him stack cans into buildings, Parcel Mistress watching from a few feet away.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Eventually, I had to get over it. The bizarre depression I spent alternating between playing in Can Town with the Mayor and searching for Bro had to come to a close, because the planet Earth could not take much more of the Carapacian war. Jack, Parcel Mistress, the Mayor, and I were probably the most cliche sack of misfits the world had ever seen, but we were a political force to be reckoned with. Upon entering a new battlefield, Jack called the Dersites to order, Parcel Mistress calmed the Prospitians, I explained the situation, and the Mayor used his mysterious powers of friendly cuteness that were completely inexplicable to make everyone suddenly very buddy-buddy with each other. All in all, the process was long, but proved successful. I never found Bro, and he never found me, but I never forgot his promise. Long years of work brought the ruins of our planet back into peace, and the humans emerged from their underground habitation as the war above them fell silent. The planet was so far past ruined that people left by the thousands on printed spaceships, likely to find anywhere better than this place. I stayed, because I was still waiting for Bro to make good on that promise.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Year three-thousand and thirty-two After Condescension. Somewhere in the north-western quadrasphere.

 

“So, that good enough for ya?” I ask Jack’s turned back. He looks up at me and grins.

 

“You could make money off of storytelling like that, round of applause. Here, have a scalpel or twelve, and get out of my house.” I roll my eyes, grab my prize and leave, dragging the Mayor with me and making a beeline for my own house. This kidney is seriously becoming a pain in the torso, it really needs to be switched out. However, I stop in my tracks when I see a small silhouette on the horizon. I’m quite confused, theres nobody around for miles and miles, honestly, there can’t be more than a few thousand Carapacians and humans combined on the entire planet, there is literally no reason for anyone to be approaching.... unless…

 

The figure comes into view, a man of six feet, wearing an extremely ratty baseball cap and carrying an even worse off puppet, with a sword sheathed at his back and a pair of stupid anime style sunglasses on his face. Everything clicks into place, and I run.

 

“Bro!”


End file.
